"And you didn't find any room with me?"
With the sound of her words her face grew hot, as with a furnace-blast, even in the frosty night-air. She would have covered what she had said, but only stammered. Ian turned, and looking at her, said with a gentle gravity—
"You must not be offended with me! I must answer you truly.—You do not give me room: have you not just told me you never longed for any yourself?"
"One ought to be independent!" said Mercy, a little nettled.
"Are you sure of that? What is called independence may really be want of sympathy. That would indicate a kind of loneliness anything but good."
"I wish you would find a less disagreeable companion then!—one that would at least be as good as nobody! I am sorry I don't know how to give you room. I would if I could. Tell me how."
Again Ian turned to her: was it possible there were tears in her voice? But her black eyes were flashing in the starlight!
"Did you ever read Zanoni?" he asked.
"I never heard of it. What is it?"
"A romance of Bulwer's."